


To Far Shores

by LassieLowrider



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: ALL the Dwarfs, Gen, Going down with this ship, Happy Ending, Love, M/M, Not A Fix-It, Oblivious dwarfs, Oblivious hobbits, Still Happy ending, They all die, They die, Thilbo, Yet Another Reuniting Fic, bagginshield
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-19
Updated: 2013-02-19
Packaged: 2017-11-29 20:41:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/691230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LassieLowrider/pseuds/LassieLowrider
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Revival, Remembrance, Rejoicing, Reuniting. All words that fit. Bilbo thinks of Valinor, and what awaits him there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Far Shores

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this actually took a while to write... and it wrote itself. I was planning on maybe 500 words. This is not 500 words.

The first thing that returned to Bilbo was his memories – not one by one, in short, quick bursts as one might expect, no, it returned all at once but a few hours after the ship had departed from the Grey Havens. He was stood at the bow of the grey ship, looking for a glimpse there was no reasonable chance of him catching, both hands clasping his walking stick tightly, Gandalf right by his side. He sagged, suddenly, acutely, feeling the weight of all his years. Gandalf hurried to give him a steadying hand, and Bilbo was ever thankful for the fact that Frodo was sleeping, that his nephew didn't have to see his uncle like the wreck he was when he, Frodo, himself, was so tired and weary.

“Steady, old friend, steady now!” Gandalf kept a firm hand on Bilbo's elbow and a close eye on Bilbo himself as Elrond rushed over, having heard the commotion. The elf was frowning, almost looking to be his age, as he looked Bilbo over. The small, hunched hobbit waved him off, straightening with an almost visible, obviously painful, effort. “Is everything as it should?” The two taller beings watched with obvious concern as he patted himself down, seemingly looking for something. After not finding what he was looking for, he turned wide blue eyes on Gandalf.

“We absolutely must turn back, Gandalf!” Both the wizard and the elf lord was gobsmacked, and it showed. In fact, they were so shocked they didn't even see the mischievous light in Bilbo's eyes, a mischievous light not seen for nigh on thirty years. “I forgot my handkerchief!” The Istari looked almost sheepish when he realized just how badly he'd been played, before he, with a rueful laugh as accompaniment, produced a delicate, burgundy handkerchief for Bilbo – if the kerchief came from thin air or a hidden pocket, Bilbo wasn't sure. The old hobbit gracefully accepted the piece of clothe, tucking it inside a pocket and pulling his pipe out of another.

“I was a little _gharÿm_ , back then, wasn't I, old friend?” It was said conversationally, almost absently as the mismatched pair stood, side by side, stopping their pipes with first-class pipe weed – in total, there were four people on the boat who understood the insult, two who could use it in the correct context – none of them were a dwarf, and the insult was about as dwarfish as they come. It was obscure, of course, and involved the incorrect use of mining equipment. In modern terms, it would mean something along the lines of 'incompetent, scared-out-of-his-wits, foolish idiot', with some aspirations cast upon his ancestry and the relations certain close ancestors probably had with barn animals. Never let it be said that dwarfs weren't creative with their insults.

The two old friends stood there, at the bow of a ship taking them onwards from life, discussing the finer points of youthful idiocy, dwarven insults and what awaited them in the future, all while smoking pipe after pipe of Middle Earth's finest pipe weed. When Frodo joined them, he was surprised to see his uncle looking, while still just as frail, much more cheerful than he had since Frodo was a tween.

The voyage didn't take long, a week or so, at the most – the ship arrived in Valinor first when its passengers were ready to. The closer they got to the end of their journey, the more obvious its affects on them were. In fact, it started as soon as they could see the still far distant shores. The first to be affected visibly was Elrond. Wrinkles smoothed out, grey hairs blackened, the slight hunch of his shoulders straightened out and soon he looked no older than his sons. With Gandalf and Galadriel there were no changes that someone could put their finger on – it just seemed as if a great weight, a weight they had been carrying for too long, were lifted from their shoulders and they filled with a vitality they hadn't felt for centuries.

Frodo's changes were some of the most welcome, however. He filled out, straightened up and didn't look quite so pale, didn't look so much like a wraith any more – as a matter of fact, he started to look like a hobbit in his best years should. The only one of them that didn't change was, in fact, Bilbo. He was still the same old, bent, wizened hobbit that had left Middle Earth behind, even if he now could remember the 130 years he had spent there. Of course, his mental changes were all the more obvious, at least to himself. He could feel all the influence the ring had had on him over the years unravelling – he had a feeling that, as soon as the last dregs of the ring was gone, so would the proof of his years. He just hoped they were gone in time for Valinor; he didn't want their first meeting in 80 years to be when Bilbo looked like an old geezer.

The closer to the shore they got, they on the ship gathered at the bow, gazing upon the promise of rolling green hills and healthy woods, hearing a silent promise of being reunited with all that they love. However, Bilbo remained where he was, sitting on a bench, leaning back into the mast and contentedly puffing on his pipe. Frodo turned around to look at his aged uncle, worry radiating off of him at the sight of his still unchanged countenance.

“Don't you worry, Frodo my boy. All endings are happy, and if it isn't happy, it's not the end.” With his usual enigmatic smiles and one of his just as enigmatic sayings, the oldest hobbit waved off his nephew's concerns. As Frodo hesitantly turned back to watch the quickly approaching shores, he missed the brief glimpse of heavy, overpowering grief – that particular saying was what had gotten Bilbo through 80 years alone.

When Gandalf estimated it to be about ten minutes left until the ship docked, the ship was close enough to the harbour to see the gathering who awaited them there – Gandalf could clearly make out Radagast, and he had a feeling he knew exactly who the group of short beings, huddled together a bit away from the others, were. Elrond and Galadriel could clearly see Celebrian, and they looked to seriously be considering if they couldn't swim the last bit. In fact, Gandalf had to actually grab ahold of Frodo to stop him from doing that; he had obviously figured out who the two short beings, standing by themselves, were. Drogo and Primula Baggins were almost glowing with happiness at finally being able to see their son again.

However, as they all were so very focused on the dock, mentally willing the ship to move faster, they all failed to notice the most astonishing change of the journey. Whereas all the others had happened gradually, this one happened instantly. From one moment to the next, an old, worn hobbit, seemingly washed out and carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, turned into a hobbit in his prime, blue eyes glittering with life, hair once again golden curls, his feet bare and strong, dressed in a corduroy dinner jacket with buttons like beetle's eyes, a handkerchief tucked into a pocket of the matching breeches, and a pipe stuck in-between his teeth. His vest was a mossy green colour, the buttons, brass with exquisitely carved acorns, gleaming just like gold in the sunshine. He was armed, a short sword in its scabbard on his hip, a small dagger tucked into the back of his breeches.

Sitting there, reclined on a bench using the mast of an elf-built ship as a backrest, Mad Baggins was back. No longer Old Master Baggins, master of Bag End, no, this was Mad Bilbo Baggins, the Baggins who was more of a Took, the hobbit burglar of a company of dwarfs, a hobbit who outsmarted a dragon and loved a king. When Frodo turned around to call to his uncle, to tell him that they had almost docked, he did not recognize the other hobbit. This was not his lovable but grouchy uncle, this was the hobbit that he'd only heard rumours and stories of. As Frodo gasped, Gandalf turned around and, as Bilbo smiled, he smiled too.

“Well, then, I must be off! Can't be late, you know!” Bilbo gathered his pipe and his walking stick, and with a few quick steps he had reached the bow and used the stick to launch himself up and off the ship, landing solidly on the dock. In his shock, the only thing Frodo thought to do was ask what he was late for.

“I'm going on an adventure, dear boy!” He took off as if he'd been burned, running for all his worth towards the thirteen beings that were huddled together, not even pausing to yell a greeting at his cousins. The thirteen turned around as they heard him, and did some kind of coordinated rush towards him. The first to reach him was taller than the rest, bald and with tattoos snaking across his face and head. When he reached the smaller male, he stopped, stooped and bashed his forehead against Bilbo's, following the violent greeting with an embrace who took the smaller male of his feet. Another male, with hair and beard white enough to shine, shorter than the tattooed one, but still taller than Frodo's uncle, wrestled the hobbit back to his feet, bashed their foreheads together and swept Bilbo up in a slightly calmer embrace. Bilbo was laughing even as the rest of the short people descended upon them, one, taller than almost all the others, hanging back slightly.

“What... who... Gandalf?” Frodo turned to the contentedly smiling wizard, not sure what he was asking but hoping for answers nonetheless. Gandalf took a few more puffs on his pipe before he deigned to answer.

“That, my dear boy, is the Company.” He pointed towards the group with the mouthpiece of his pipe. “The thirteen dwarfs who, with Bilbo's aid, avenged and reclaimed the long-lost dwarven kingdom, Erebor. I imagine it's a dear reunion.” Frodo turned large eyes towards the company again, surprised that this ragtag group of dwarfs, for now he could clearly see that that was what they were, were the stuff of legends – true legends.

“Why do they do that, then?” He waved his hand in the general direction of the fourteen, indicating the rather boisterous greetings, the forehead-banging in particular. “It's like nothing I've ever seen!” Gandalf puffed at his pipe, blowing magnificent smoke rings while he thought about the question.

“I imagine not, indeed. That, master hobbit, is the traditional greeting between dwarfs and their families – indeed, I don't think anyone _but_ a dwarf have been greeted like that since... well, I don't think any other have ever been greeted like that!” The two, hobbit and wizard, disembarked the ship that had brought them to the Undying Lands, separating briefly to greet those that they had missed the most, before bringing their long-dead companions to meet Bilbo's dwarfs.

“I'm going on an adventure, dear boy!” He took off as if he'd been burned, running for all his worth towards the thirteen beings that were huddled together, not even pausing to yell a greeting at his cousins. The thirteen turned around as they heard him, and did some kind of coordinated rush towards him.

“You took your time, Burglar!” Dwalin reached him first, the tall dwarf placing his hands on Bilbo's shoulders and bringing their foreheads together with almost teeth-rattling force before getting a firm grip around the hobbit's middle and taking him off his feet with the force of his embrace. Balin reached him next, and Bilbo couldn't help but chuckle at the mirroring of their very first meeting.

“Come now, brother, we want to greet our hobbit too!” It was almost reluctantly that Dwalin let his brother pull Bilbo out of his arms, only for the process to be repeated – foreheads brought together and Bilbo lifted off his feet with the force of the embrace, just a tad more gently this time.

“Hey, don't hog the hobbit!” Fili and Kili tapped each other's foreheads just as much as his, and since neither seemed willing to let go, he found himself in the middle of two tall, slim dwarfs. The rest of the company, seemingly sensing that neither of the brothers would let go of him, decided to join them. Thus, Bilbo Baggins found himself on the bottom of a dwarf-pile, a strangely familiar feeling even if it had been eighty years since last. Balin, Dwalin and Thorin stood back a little, avoiding the dwarven heap, watching with fond smiles as their hobbit was smothered halfway to death. If he happened to manage to stick an arm or leg out, trying to get out from underneath ten dwarfs, a dwarven hand shot out and neatly tucked the hobbit limb back in.

The heap of companions managed to right themselves just in time for the others to reach them, Bilbo overjoyed to see Drogo and Primula again – he'd been a might too busy running towards his dwarfs to take note of who he passed on his way. As Bilbo reunited with his relatives, Gandalf and the company greeted each other just as delightedly, if not as exuberantly, as Bilbo and they had.

“Well, lad, here are my companions – the thirteen dwarfs who I helped reclaim Erebor!” Bilbo pulled Frodo, uncharacteristically shy, towards the dwarfs who, seemingly sensing the younger hobbit's hesitation, held back their more over-the-top gestures. “Dori, Nori and Ori, sons of Lori, Bofur and Bombur, sons of Landur, Bifur, son of Bandur – they're cousins, see, Oin and Gloin, sons of Heldoin, Dwalin and Balin, sons of Fundin, Kili and Fili, sons of Vili, and... Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, King Under the Mountain. Company, this is my nephew, Frodo Baggins.” The dwarfs took turns, bowing as they were introduced, but Frodo had a feeling he would still never be quite able to remember all their names, much less their relations. The tall, regal dwarf in the back merely bowed his head slightly as he was introduced, and Frodo wasn't sure if he was more intimidated by the quiet, majestic manner, or by the indescribable, undecipherable emotion in his eyes whenever his eyes landed on the elder hobbit. That emotion never left the king's eyes, though, since his eyes never left Bilbo. Frodo had a feeling that there was something rather important that Bilbo had neglected to tell him about the quest to reclaim Erebor.

It didn't take long for everyone to decide to retire back to their respective dwellings, allowing for the reacquainting between long-lost friends and family. The small family of three, Frodo in the middle and almost glowing with happiness, wandered off to a small gathering of hills that looked suspiciously like the Shire, and the two wizards wandered off towards a nearby forest that looked like what Bilbo imagined Mirkwood once had, when it was still called Greenwood.

The small company apparently had a bit to go, however, but Bilbo couldn't help but be just as happy with that as anything – he was rejoicing in the fact that he actually could walk under his own power again, basking in the company and cheer of good friends, just as cheerfully trying to ignore the almost looming presence at his back. He also ignored the way that the rest of the company pulled ahead, herded on by Balin, in what he probably thought was helpfulness. As much as Bilbo had been looking forward to this reunion, he had also been dreading it.

They had entered a small copse of trees, just barely keeping the backs of the rest in sight, when Thorin's hand on Bilbo's shoulder brought them to a stop in the middle of a small clearing. Bilbo didn't turn around, didn't look at Thorin – didn't look at the one he called king, both of land and of his heart. He was too afraid of what he would see, of what the other would say. However, the dwarf remained silent for so long that eventually Bilbo had to turn around. He took one step away from the dwarf, shaking off his hand at his shoulder, and then turned to look at him.

Thorin, as usual, took his breath away, but now he also broke his heart. One hand still stretched out towards Bilbo, the other hanging at his side, and his blue eyes, the eyes that Bilbo admired so much, the eyes he had dreamed of for eighty years, were filled with overwhelming pain and fear so raw it cut into Bilbo's soul.

Bilbo watched his king with guarded eyes, even as he reached out a hesitant hand and grasped the taller man's out of the air, taking a step and ending up almost chest to chest with the other. This close, Bilbo could see the grief, the pain and the fear filling Thorin's eyes, could also see the hope slowly growing there.

“I apologize, my king, for those of my actions that preceded our parting on not the best of terms. I realize that the agreement we had before my banishment is called off, and ask only that I am allowed to stay here, with the rest of the company, as your burglar if nothing else.” Only the fact that Bilbo had had eighty years to imagine this moment allowed him to keep his voice steady, and it was only the close view that he had of Thorin's face that made it possible for him to see the dismay that crossed his face before the dwarf pulled him in close, clasping him to a solid chest and burying his face in Bilbo's curls. His mouth was right by Bilbo's ear, and every word Thorin said seemed to pierce Bilbo's heart directly.

“It is not your fault, Bilbo, if anything I only have my self to blame. What you did, stealing the Arkenstone and trading it for peace, that was unbearably brave. I allowed myself to fall for the gold lust I know poisons my line, allowed myself to lose sight of what is important. It pains me that we had to part on such bad terms as we did, the same it pains me to know that I nurture a fool's hope when wishing to once again call you my consort.” Every word made Thorin's lips brush the sensitive shell of Bilbo's ear, and for every word Bilbo shivered and pressed himself closer to Thorin's chest, his arms coming up to clench the back of Thorin's fur coat tight in his hands.

Bilbo gave a broken laugh, a sound as much like a sob as a laugh, and Thorin tightened his arms around the smaller male when the broken exhale brushed his neck. Bilbo considered pulling himself away from Thorin, thinking this to be the kind of conversation that needed to be held while seeing each other, but if this was to be their last embrace, Bilbo still dared not to hope otherwise, then he wanted to treasure this moment, this feeling of safety in the other's arms.

“It seems we have both been regretting happenings not quite within our blame for the last eighty years, O king, and for whatever slight, imagined or not, you blame yourself for, you are forgiven. If my king do not protest, I would very much like to nurture that same fool's hope and call myself the consort of the King Under the Mountain, and be by your side always.” Thorin pulled away slightly, searching Bilbo's face. Apparently he found what he was looking for, because he crushed the hobbit to him again, giving a low, relieved laugh.

“My dear burglar, nothing would make me happier!” The two pulled away from each other, remaining close but not quite pressed together, and just stood there, smiling blissfully at each other. Thorin reached out and Bilbo grasped his hand, pulling it up and nuzzling his cheek into Thorin's palm, almost purring when he stroked Bilbo's cheek with his thumb. The dwarf took a step towards his love, angling the smaller male's head up, and lowered his own. There, he hesitated, until Bilbo sighed in exasperation and reached up to thread his hand in Thorin's hair, using the grip to pull him down the last few inches.

The kiss started out gentle, just a brushing of lips, Bilbo pressing closer and Thorin's arm wrapping around the hobbit's waist, and the two breaking away from each other, placing small, sipping kisses on and around lips, before Thorin once again claimed Bilbo's lips, licking at his lips interspersed with small, teasing nips, taking his chance when Bilbo moaned, familiarizing himself once again with the taste of the other's mouth, thinking how easy it would be to lose himself in the embrace of this small being with a heart bigger than Erebor.

When they broke the kiss, lips swollen and eyes slightly glazed, they were surprised to hear cheers, whistles and applause, and turning around they found twelve dwarfs emerging from the surrounding trees and shrubbery. Bilbo blushed and buried his face in Thorin's neck, but Thorin was too happy and relieved to find it in himself to mind their behaviour or, for that matter to scold them fro it.

“About time!”

“Can we call him uncle?”

“Well, maybe you won't be sulking quite so much then, eh, Thorin?” Dwalin was the only one to not have treated Thorin differently after he gained his throne, and really, they had grown up together, so Thorin couldn't see the point. Bilbo managed to pull himself out of Thorin's coat after the blush receded, smiling at the gathered dwarfs and giving his assent that yes, Fili and Kili could call him uncle if they wanted to – really, he considered them his nephews already, so why not.

“Let's go home,” Thorin said, lightly touching his forehead to Bilbo's before turning, keeping one arm around Bilbo's waist, and continuing on the path they'd started out on before the impromptu reunion.

So, surrounded by twelve dwarfs, happy for the first time in eighty years, the King Who Reclaimed Erebor and his Consort, the Burglar Who Stole a King's Heart, set out towards their home and an eternity together.  

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked it.


End file.
